


Tomorrow Begins Today!

by deweyfinn



Category: School of Rock - Lloyd Webber/Slater/Fellowes
Genre: Alternate Universe, Big Fish AU, Cancer, F/M, Kid Fic, Mentions of Cancer, i guess?, i'm not putting it in the amelie fandom as its literally just amelie + a mention of nino, its mostly dewey/rosalie centered, thats a big trigger in this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:21:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26808805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deweyfinn/pseuds/deweyfinn
Summary: "...and when you tell my story, and I hope somebody does, remember me as something bigger than I was!"Dewey Finn is your run-of-the-mill rockstar, always on the road, and always finding a new adventure to embark on. Dewey's tall tales enamor everyone around him, especially the love of his life, his wife Rosalie. However, when their son, Jack, soon to become a father himself, becomes determined to discover the truth behind his father's epic stories, he find more than he bargained for, as the life of one Dewey Finn can not be contained in so neat a story.
Relationships: Dewey Finn/Amélie Poulain, Dewey Finn/Rosalie Mullins, Patty Di Marco/Ned Schneebly
Kudos: 6





	Tomorrow Begins Today!

**Author's Note:**

> This au is based on the _musical_ 'Big Fish'. It's a labor of love that I've been working on for more or less two years, with some input from my friends — hence the unexpected but lovely ship between Amélie and Dewey.
> 
> Full disclosure, this chapter was not really proofread, but from the next chapter one, there should be a beta reader soon! Thanks for reading in advance!

There’s a small body of water not a far distance from the Finn residence. If you’d asked him, Dewey wouldn’t be able to accurately tell you whether it was a river, a pond, a lake, a creek or a stream — but he’d  _ confidently _ tell you it was the ocean. 

The man in question is Dewey Finn, fifty-five year old former rockstar, though he’d take great offense to the use of “former”. He sits at a clumsily, yet charmingly built, dock on the shore. Clad in hideous cargo shorts, and a faded band shirt, one foot is dropped into the water below, the other folded in front of him. In his lap, an acoustic guitar, clearly well-loved. Sheen on the wood’s varnish long since worn off, little nicks and dents everywhere around the instrument, and the imprints of the strings have been all but carved into the man’s calloused hands. 

It’s a picture-perfect scene: fish swimming in the water below him, a fun, bouncy melody being plucked from the guitar, and a gentle hum coming from the man holding it. The sun in the sky is high, and bright, warm but not scalding, and the water is gently rippling, not pushing rough waves around. 

The sound of footsteps, even and measured, on the dock pulls Dewey out of his music. A young man now stands next to him, dressed, as always, in stark contrast to the laid-back rockstar: a button-down shirt tucked neatly into tailored dress pants. He’s well-shaven, and his hair is styled impeccably.  _ “Dad,” _ he says, in a tone mixing whining and scolding. It makes Dewey roll his eyes on impulse. “C’mon, you  _ know _ we’re starting soon. You really couldn’t have put on a pair of pants,  _ at least? _ ” 

“What’re you talking about?” Dewey throws back, gesturing to the atrocity covering his upper legs. “I’m not out here in my  _ boxers _ or anything.” Through his defense, he only glances up to his son, before returning to his guitar, paying him little to no mind. 

“You  _ know _ we’re starting soon.” 

“It’s a  _ rehearsal _ dinner. It’s not like they’ve never had dinner before — no one  needs any practice doing it. I mean,  _ I  _ clearly did enough of that myself.” He stops, looks up at his son, who was now holding out a hand for his father to take. “I’ll be wearing my finest suit and tie for the wedding tomorrow, don’t worry.”

“Y’know,” the young man says, as Dewey sets the guitar down on the dock next to him. “I’m still surprised you actually agreed to it.” 

“And I wouldn’t do it for just anyone, Jack,” Dewey says, taking his son’s hand in his, and pulling himself up to stand. Jack takes in his appearance — worn, torn clothing, one leg sopping wet, hair disheveled, and stubble entirely unkempt. The usual. “I think the only other time anyone managed to force me into one’a those monkey suits was for my wedding.”

“And Mom had just as tough a time as I am, I’m sure,” he says, the slightest trace of sarcasm tinging his words. “Look, just put the stupid suit on for two hours, we’ll have dinner, then you can go back home and sleep, or whatever.” 

“Funny.” 

“I’m not kidding.”

“Are you — are you scared about tomorrow?” Dewey asks, looking up ever so slightly, staring straight into his son’s eyes. Almost as if studying his expression. 

_ “No!” _ comes the response, almost a little too defensively quick. (He catches that as well.) “No. I don’t think I’ve ever been so excited for anything before.” He’s smiling, his eyes catching the glow of the sun, shining just as brightly. It warms Dewey’s heart, and tugs at his own lips, forcing him into a smile as well. They stand in silence for just a moment, as the younger Finn looks out across the water. “Wait a sec, isn’t this the river where you taught me how to fish?” 

Dewey’s grin grows wider. “Yeah! You caught a trout about uh…” Dewey holds his hands out in front of him, first together, then spread apart real wide, at least three feet apart. “About that big!” 

Jack rolls his eyes, and the smile shifts from one of genuine pride and amusement to one of cynicism. “More like half that, but  _ whatever _ .” Dewey barely holds back his impulse to argue back when Jack presses on. “Anyways, Dad, uh. Theresa and I wanted to ask that you don’t, y’know. Tell any of your  _ stories _ tomorrow.” 

“My  _ stories? _ ” Dewey repeats, almost as if Jack was speaking a wholly different language.

“Yeah, the stories that you always tell — the ones that you would share every night before bed when I was a little kid, or at the dinner table. You know. The ones about the  _ witch _ , and the  _ giant, _ and the  _ circus _ .” 

“Okay, okay, it wasn’t an  _ actual  _ circus —”

“ _ The point is,” _ Jack says, trying to pull his father back on course. (A daunting task for any man, certainly.) “We just wanted to ask that you don’t, like, start spouting off these tall tales to anyone at the wedding. We just want to keep it, I dunno what to call it, I guess relaxed?” 

“You want a chill wedding, sure. I get that. You’re just- Hey, you  _ did _ lie!” 

“Lie about what?” Jack asks, ready to go back on the defense, especially once his father gets that stupid smirk on his face. If he knew the man at all, he knew damn well that that meant he was going to start  _ some _ shit soon enough. 

“You  _ are _ scared!” Dewey teases, a hint of laughter bubbling up as he speaks. Jack starts to protest, even while his father continues to speak over him, dismissing him. “You’re scared about the wedding, and you’re looking for  _ someone _ to blame, so  **of course** , it’s coming back to me.”

“Dad, you know-”

“I get it! I get it!” Dewey waves away the concern. “You know, you’ve always been bad at lying, though.”

“Have not.”

“Have too,” Dewey argues, looking back out to the water. “Just like your mom. When you were a kid I wanted to teach you how to swim. Right here, actually. You wouldn’t jump into the lake, and when I asked you if you were scared you got this look on your face — same one as right now — and you said,  _ ‘no!’,  _ also, y’know, like now. So I had to push you in.” 

“Yeah!” Jack said, nodding, and obviously faking an agreeable tone. “And I cursed you every day for it!”

“Well, you learned how to swim, didn’t you?”

“Not the point.”

“Yeah? What  _ is _ the point?” It was apparent that Dewey was beginning to get annoyed, and he’s never been all that good at hiding his emotions.

“Can you just promise me, for  _ one night _ you won’t tell any of your stories? You’ll reign it in? One night?” 

“Fine, fine. I promise.” 

_ “Thank you.” _

“But first…”

“Dad, c’mon, we’re already running late, and you still need to get changed.” Despite his son’s protests, Dewey continues walking past him, leaving Jack on the dock as he found his way to the sand and dirt covered bank of the river. He stares at the ground, eyes scanning the earth below him, as if looking for something intently. 

Dewey coughs, hand on his stomach, and almost groans. He bounces back soon enough, brushing the entire ordeal off. Jack doesn’t respond as nonchalantly, however. “Are you okay?” he asks, quickly dismissed with a “Yup! Just allergies.” 

_ That’s a bullshit answer, _ Jack knows, immediately, but for his father’s sake, and to avoid yet another argument,  _ especially _ when his mother isn’t around to diffuse it, he swallows the knee-jerk response before it gets voiced. He can hear Dewey mumbling and murmuring to himself, especially as he kneels down to inspect something on the floor. 

“Quit playing games!” Jack calls out, ready to set out to follow him, though he halts his movements when he sees Dewey pick up something from the sand, and make his way back over to the dock. 

“Here,” he says, holding out a flat rock. “I’d use a guitar pick, but I think Rosie’d kill me for littering in the ocean.” 

“As would I,” Jack says, hesitantly accepting the offer. A look at his father’s left hand and Jack can tell that he’s holding one almost exactly akin to his own. “What’s this for?” he asks, turning the stone over in his hand, confusion shaping his features. 

“For good luck. To you and Theresa. You remember how to do this, right? I taught you when you were ten.”

“Do wh-” The question starts to roll off Jack’s tongue, before he realizes what his father’s about to do. The rock that Dewey was holding, held carefully in his left hand, was sent flying, skipping across the water in leaps, before it traveled out farther than Jack could make it out. 

“Your turn.”

“Okay… Here goes.” Jack winds up his right arm, just as Dewey had done moments before, and lets it go, with less energy than Dewey, but with far more grace than the rockstar had ever possessed. It hopped once, twice, and then sunk to the water’s floor with a disappointing ripple left behind in its wake. “Never was that good at it.”

“It’s cool. We all have our off-days.” He pauses, looking back out at the water for a moment, before turning around sharply. He pats his son on the back as he starts walking back, leaving the river far behind him. “To what’s next!” Dewey says, and Jack watches him walk away. 

Peering back out at the river, Jack kicks a pebble left behind on the dock into the river, watching it drop into the water with a satisfying  _ plop.  _

“ _ What’s next _ indeed.”  



End file.
